


Four times Mulder doesn't call Scully sweetie, and one time he does

by i_gaze_at_scully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully





	Four times Mulder doesn't call Scully sweetie, and one time he does

**i.**  Mulder learns quickly, quick learner that he is, that pet names aren’t Scully’s thing.

“Hon?” He calls offhandedly from the bathroom one day. “You’re out of toothpaste–do you have one in the linen closet?” She doesn’t respond, so he sticks his head out. “Scully?” She has her arms crossed and a pale pink complexion and he can’t figure out why. She disappears into the hall to grab him another tube (because of course she had one in the linen closet), and hardly looks at him when she hands it to him. He only figures it out the next time, when he calls her  _baby_  in bed. He wouldn’t say she’s disgusted, just suddenly very conscious, very aware. Once he makes the connection, he bites his tongue.

But pet names  _are_  Mulder’s thing, and no one’s perfect.

 **ii.**  At first, he tries them out systematically. He carefully chooses the pet name, the setting, the circumstance. One day they’re sitting on a park bench in Old Town and she’s radiant, she’s just radiant. The sun’s setting on the water, her hair is pulled back in a ponytail with little curls framing her face. He struggles to focus on her words and not the slight shimmer of her skin where the sun strikes her face, her tongue as it darts out to wet her lips as she speaks, her hand on his knee…

“Mulder?” He snaps out of the trance she doesn’t even know she holds him in and smiles. He chooses carefully, fits the word to the mood.

“Sorry, love, I’m listening.” She swats at his thigh and looks out on the water. Shame– _love_  is one of his favorites. “Just admiring the eighth wonder of the world,” he adds, and she turns her head specifically to roll her eyes at him. He catches her chin between his thumb and forefinger ever so gently and kisses her.

 **iii.**  Domestic Scully is one of his favorite iterations, interestingly enough. His Scully is harsh angles, hard science, hands on hips and fiery eyes. But his Scully, as he’s found out, is also chambray shirts rolled up at the sleeves, fuzzy slippers and oversized shirts ( _his_ oversized shirts, that is). She’s fancy sweaters and chicken piccata at the living room coffee table with a copy of  _The American Journal of Medicine_. She’s brilliant.

One morning she brings him piping hot coffee in bed. Dust particles dance in the slated sunlight streaming through his blinds, mingle with the steam rising off his mug. She sits on the edge of the bed by his thigh, leans over gingerly to kiss him.

“Mm coffee breath,” he mumbles as she pulls back, sleepy morning lips lingering as they part. She smiles and traces the outline of his ear with tender fingers. “Thanks for the coffee, dear,” he tries, but even he has to admit it sounds too trite. She doesn’t pull away, but becomes intently focused on his ear, her mouth forming a harder line than before. He takes a sip of coffee to break the tension and succeeds by nearly spitting it right back out.

“Fuck!” He curses, ineffectually waving at his mouth to cool off his burning tongue.

“Oh, sorry,” Scully laughs, taking the mug from his hand and placing it on the night side table. “What can I say?” She places her own mug beside his and straddles him. He looks down in awe as his old Oxford shirt rides up on her hips. She braces her hands on the headboard around his ears. “I like it hot.”

Coffee and pet names go forgotten as they make the most of their lazy Sunday morning.

 **iv.**  “Scully…” he breathes like the wind’s been knocked out of him. And with her looking like  _that_ , it may as well have been. She smoothes the front of her dress down, her hands making tracks on the soft velvet, and gives a small smile. The sapphires of her earrings gleam in the lamp light, though they’ve got nothing on her eyes. He doesn’t know what miracle of makeup could make her eyes more impactful, but she’s done it, and he is floored.

“Cat got your tongue?” She teases. He catches that quietly fierce confidence in her voice and it sends him right over the edge. He sits up from the kitchen table wordlessly and tugs on her hand determinedly on his way to the bedroom. She laughs in her surprise, nearly tripping in those wonderful strappy heels.

“Mulder,” she protests. “The ball?” Mulder presses her against the bedroom door and takes a moment to give her a bonafide Scully eyebrow before cupping her face.

“Babe,” he says simply. “I couldn’t give a  _fuck_  about the FBI ball right now.” He doesn’t wait for her to scoff at _babe_  before devouring her, but in the millisecond between, he senses that she might not have.

 **v.**  It’s the little things, always the little things. She picks up sunflower seeds before he even realizes he was out, writes him little notes on the foggy bathroom mirror. One night she shows up at his apartment with a six pack and a movie, a vision in faded denim jeans. He cracks a smile, a difficult feat after a day like today.

“A movie night, Scully?” He has a soft spot in his heart for those movie nights of theirs. These days, there wasn’t much need for organizing them, nor was there much focus available for a movie anyway. But nostalgia is a powerful drug. She kisses his cheek on tip toes and moves past him into the living room.

“You didn’t need to do this,” he tells her on the couch while the movie rewinds. He runs his hands over her shins nervously.

“Hey,” she says softly, lolling her head onto his shoulder. “I wanted to. I love this movie.”

He scoffs, leaning his head against hers. “You love  _Braveheart_? I call bull.”

Her legs are warm and heavy on his lap, her breath tickling his neck. She drags her fingers along his jaw, gently scratching his five o’clock shadow. Nostalgia’s one hell of a drug, but there’s nothing like the very real, very sweet present day Scully curled up next to him. 

“Thanks, sweetie,” he whispers, kissing her crown. She pulls back and looks up at him with unexpected adoration in her eyes. She boops his nose with her fingertip, lingers there for a moment as he closes his eyes.

“I like sweetie,” she says, and he smiles.

Sweetie it is.


End file.
